


Then Let Us Be Glad

by phlogiston_kell



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Although I don't know if I'd go that far considering the brevity, Gen, Not quite a character study---more of a relationship study?, mostly reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26012998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phlogiston_kell/pseuds/phlogiston_kell
Summary: He cannot untangle the Silmaril which had been cast into the sea from the mother who cast herself with it, cannot untangle the Silmaril which now shines in the sky from the father who is not coming back. Neither can he untangle his own anger at this abandonment from the fierce, burning pride in his chest, or the sorrowful kind of finality which has settled into his heart. The Silmaril is in the sky and their parents are not coming back for them. The Silmaril is in the sky and let us be glad.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Then Let Us Be Glad

Maglor never stops moving. He paces, circling whatever room he is in. He walks the walls, walks the halls. Even when he is sitting, he is never still, his leg bouncing, his fingers tapping at the tabletop or on his thigh or twisting a few strands of hair. There is something frantic to it, something desperate, and a darkness to his grey eyes that tells Elrond that no matter how far he walks, Maglor will never have arrived in time, and no matter how much he moves, they will never have been the right ones. Though he sits at the harp and sometimes plays, the music holds neither joy nor serenity. But it moves, rippling waves of regret so strong that Elrond has paused outside the door on occasion, slumping down against the wall so he can cry without Maglor seeing. Maglor always stops if he sees the boys cry. There is a practiced gentleness when he sets down the harp, and the way he says “I’m… sorry” with a pause between the words is the same way he looked at Elrond that first time, uncertain concern and uneasy guilt. Elrond is never sure which act he is apologizing for. 

In contrast, there is a measured stillness to Maedhros. He is almost always careful around the boys, but when he is not---when Elrond or Elros walk in on a discussion, or when conversation becomes heated over a shared meal---there is a brightness to him, a burning. His soul seems almost to shine out through his skin, and for a few moments his pale eyes are alight with something so roiling and raw that Elrond cannot bear to look at it. The rest of the time, there is a brisk economy to his movements, a deliberateness which masks the fire that Elrond knows is roaring beneath. 

He has seen them both in battle, fell and fey. It is difficult to reconcile it with the pair he has seen in the halls for so many years, one perfectly still, one in perpetual motion. It is more difficult still to reconcile it with the other moments he has glimpsed: Maedhros half-remembered, kneeling next to a pale corpse with dark red hair; Maglor seen through a half-open door, slumped against a harp with his hands resting listlessly against the strings. There is a weight and a weariness to them both. Their eyes are hollow. There are times when Elrond cannot help but pity them, even as he holds fast to the loss they have carved into his life. 

It is at one such time that the Silmaril appears. 

He remembers the night clearly. They are walking the walls with Maglor, small shadows in his wake. They happen upon Maedhros, whose hand rests on the wall, whose gaze is fixed on the sky. “Look,” he says, hardly a breath. It is all that needs to be said. Maglor’s gaze rises. He falls still. Elrond watches the pair for a moment, looking for sudden movement, and when he sees none he looks upward as well, sees the new star burning brilliant and cold in the western sky. 

“Surely,” Maedhros asks slowly, deliberately, “that is a Silmaril that shines now in the West?” 

“If it be truly the Silmaril which we saw cast into the sea that rises again by the power of the Valar, then let us be glad;” Maglor says, “for its glory is seen now by many, and is yet secure from all evil.” He is speaking too quickly. The praise has a note of performance, and ‘let us be glad’ the air of a command. 

“Let us be glad indeed,” Maedhros says, and a look passes between them. Elrond cannot read it. He can only meet his brother’s eyes and see the light which burns there, a fire which matches that of the new star in its chill and its intensity. 

“Let us be glad?” Elros whispers that night, alone in the darkness of their room. “ _Be glad?_ The _Silmaril_ we saw cast into the sea?” He can hardly articulate himself further, sputtering through what was said as though the mere echo ought to be enough to express his outrage. 

It is. Elrond knows the sickening feeling of the words, the pounding refrain of his own heart in his ears and the undercurrent of _let us be glad, let us be glad, that is my_ family _which is gone and let us be glad._ He cannot untangle the Silmaril which had been cast into the sea from the mother who cast herself with it, cannot untangle the Silmaril which now shines in the sky from the father who is not coming back. Neither can he untangle his own anger at this abandonment from the fierce, burning pride in his chest, or the sorrowful kind of finality which has settled into his heart. The Silmaril is in the sky and their parents are not coming back for them. The Silmaril is in the sky and let us be glad. 

Those who remain are not good parents. They are trying, but they are not good. The darkness in Maglor is too deep. Maedhros’s fire burns but does not warm. And Elrond cannot hate them for it, not as he feels he should. Elros holds onto it better, longer than he does. Elrond cannot help but wonder, years later, whether it influences Elros’s choice. To take up the mantle of mortality marks him as separate from the brothers who raised them, but marks him as separate from their parents as well. Did Elros consider this? Did he mean to set himself apart from all of it, from every hand that reached and fought and grasped for the gems which have overshadowed all their lives? To claim humanity is an act of removal from their kidnappers, certainly, claiming a tradition which, though intertwined, is not the same as the one which has brought so much bloodshed, so much sorrow. Yet Elrond cannot make that choice. It is a Silmaril that shines now in the West, but with that Silmaril is Elrond’s father, and in the West is Elrond’s mother, and even when the shadows who raised him depart from his life, he can feel their hold on him remain. He cannot give them up without giving up the others. He cannot choose humanity without losing a shared fate. He envies Elros’s bravery in striking out into the unknown, taking the promise of a role in the Second Music. But the known weighs too heavily on Elrond for the unknown to hold that appeal. 

He is born too late to untangle it, this bright and burning mess which has claimed life after life after life, including, in a way, his own. He is born too late to save anyone from the wreckage of the First Age of the world, and can only look back at those who shaped his life and regard their actions as they left it. 

He does not know if he can forgive them. He does not know if he would have done any better.


End file.
